or, The Paladin’s Dilemma
In a mostly-forgotten ruin, a tiefling paladin kneels before the remains of a skeleton. A skeleton with a skull that the paladin himself had caved in with his own mace after it attacked.
Fydes understands the absurdity of the scenario as he sets his weapons at his sides, but absurdity is no reason to give up on principle. With his shortsword at his left leg and his mace on the right, he folds his hands together and bows his head:
“Goddess of Peace,” he speaks barely above a whisper, forever unsure if she’s really listening. “Guide the lost soul freed from this devilish entrapment to your domain, to a place that suits their actions in life and calms their eternal heart.”
It’s not his place to decide where people go after they die. He just knows that using someone else’s ethereal soul for your own bidding is against his principles. He knows nothing about the person that this skeleton used to be. Or more morbidly, who used to be wrapped around this skeleton.
As if to mock him, the lower jaw of the skeleton cracks and falls from the skull, clattering to the floor.
Fydes sighs. “You’re welcome, pal.”
He could take the time to try and bury the skeleton in a more meaningful place, but without the details of its previous life, there was no reasonable starting point. And here in this long-abandoned fortress miles away from the main thoroughfare through the valley, there wouldn’t be much foot traffic other than people like him.
Adventurers, if he’s being optimistic. Sellswords and mercenaries if he’s being realistic. Bandits and looters if he’s particularly dour. Not a single one would recognize this fellow.
He grabs his weapons, making sure to sheathe the sword but keeping a firm grip on the mace. Somewhere in this forsaken place was a lost keyrune that Lady Rhea Trevalan had handsomely compensated him to locate.
In truth, this was the kind of place where Fydes thrived. The looming threat of danger justified his constant vigilance, bordering on paranoia. But when an animated skeleton can just jump out of you any second, then paranoia is useful.
Fydes wanders into an unexplored chamber that could have once been a dining hall, sighing in disappointment as he discovers that what used to be a mezzanine has eroded to the point where the entrance to one of the fortress’ towers is a vertical climb up crooked cobblestone to the doorway.
He glances around the chamber again, looking for hints as to the tower’s purpose before committing to the effort of making his way up there. The threshold itself looks to be lined with silver unlike every other stone archway in the ruin; no obvious signs of wildlife can temporarily rule out an apiary; and when he closes his eyes he can sense the faintest traces of an arcane leyline in that direction.
It’s a wizard’s tower. If not a wizard, then perhaps a sorcerer or other caster, the kind of person to demand a room in the tallest tower for scientific reasons when it’s really just an attempt at establishing themselves above others, physically if not culturally.
If there was going to be a keyrune in this place, odds are good that it’d be there.
Fydes slips his mace’s wrist strap off and then carefully, expertly, lobs it up to land on the other side of the archway. Then, he does the same with his shortsword. Even his shoulder pauldrons.
“Well, this is new,” a rough, low voice rumbles from behind him.
Fydes whips his head around to see a bugbear standing in the chamber doorway, leaning against the wall with a blood-red glaive in both hands, held horizontally at his waist. “Thought the point of being a paladin was to keep the armor on.” He grins. “But where are my manners? Greggurr Dwarvesbane. It’s a pleasure.” He takes one hand off the glaive and offers it lazily toward Fydes.
Fydes doesn’t move closer, but doesn’t take his eyes off the bugbear. “I make it a habit not to shake hands with people holding weapons.”
The bugbear laughs, jostling the glaive with his other hand. “What, this thing? Plucked it off some warlock who tried to kill me. Probably for a blood sacrifice or something. Haven’t actually used it on anybody yet, thing looks like it’s made of glass so we’ll see how durable it is.”
“Sure,” Fydes says, not particularly interested in the details of a warlock’s weapon. “So why are you here?”
“Looking for some junk on behalf of a client. I’m a mercenary of sorts.”
Of course, Fydes thinks. “And what kind of junk are you looking for?”
“Arcane bullshit, pretty trinkets worth a lot of money, the usual. Why are you here, then?”
“I’m looking for a particular trinket,” Fydes says, not wanting to reveal exactly what yet.
“Perfect!” Greggurr grins and takes a few steps forward, swinging his glaive to let the shaft rest on his shoulder, blade behind him. “Let’s work together. We’ll keep on looking until you find your particular trinket, and I’ll keep everything else. Sound fair?”
“I don’t need help,” Fydes says. “You can explore on your own, just don’t get in my way.”
“All right, I guess I can sign off on that,” Greggurr says. “I’ll just, uh, explore ‘adjacent’ to you for a while.”
Fydes sighs again. “Sure.”
“Perfect!” Greggurr approaches the edge of the room with the eroded mezzanine. “But uh, why toss your stuff up there?”
“I’m going to climb. It’s easier to throw these heavier pieces up and re-equip after.”
“But you’re a paladin, right? Can’t you cast spells?”
“Some, yes,” Fydes admits.
“So just magic your way up there!”
“I’d rather save the effort in case I need it later.”
Greggurr snorts a laugh. “Seems like it’s more effort to climb than to use the magic.”
“Not for me,” Fydes says. Then, maybe with a bit of a smirk, he approaches the wall and starts climbing. It’s not much trouble, except for when Greggurr pipes up about halfway to the ledge.
“Damn impressive, that is!” He hollers.
Fydes turns his gaze back toward Greggurr.
“Your ass, I mean. It’s impeccable! You could bounce a silver off that thing,” Greggurr says, grinning.
Fydes just grumbles as he climbs the rest of the way up, quickly donning his pauldrons and grabbing his weapons. He turns to look back at Greggurr. The bugbear flourishes his hand and waves his glaive, starting to levitate. He rises higher and higher, gently floating toward the landing until he rests his feet solidly on the ground.
“See? Much easier.”
“Easy now just means difficult later,” Fydes says, almost without thinking.
Greggurr scoffs. “That’s such a paladin thing to say. Always with the high road, holier-than-thou attitude.”
“What were you expecting?” Fydes asks.
Greggurr looks ready to offer a counterpoint, but finds himself speechless. “Wait, you’re saying the stereotypes are true?”
Fydes starts walking up the stairs and Greggurr gives chase. “I’m not saying that. But it’s a bit foolish to run into a paladin and expect him to behave like a lazy, hairy, bugbear…what are you again?”
“Occupation? Mercenary.”
“No, your, uh, I don’t know what they call it. Training?”
“Oh, I’m a wizard!” Greggurr offers a thumbs up while holding his glaive.
“And you got your glaive from a dead warlock?”
“Yeah! I’m pretty sure he’s dead, at least. He coulda been a lich for all I know.”
Fydes rolls his eyes when Greggurr’s not looking. A lich would have disintegrated into dust when its mortal body died before reforming days later. Something doesn’t add up here, but Fydes doesn’t have time to unravel the mystery.
“W-wait, hold on, I need a second,” Greggurr says, leaning one arm against the tower wall.
Fydes whips his head around. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m just, uh, a little winded, is all.”
“We’re almost to the top of the tower!”
“Right,” Greggurr says. “Perfect time to take a quick break and let me catch my breath, right?”
Fydes crosses his arms. “If you didn’t magic your way through things, you’d be in a better condition for your work.”
Greggurr looks bemused. “Buddy, if I didn’t magic my way up that wall, I’d have to take more breaks.”
Fydes shakes his head. “Think bigger than that. Sure, you climb that one wall, it feels awful. But you start climbing more walls, and you’ll be in better shape to climb one when you really need to.”
“Are you a rock-climbing nut or something? Do you do it for fun?”
Fydes sighs, exasperated. “No, it’s about discipline.”
“Oh buddy, I know all about discipline, if you catch my—” Greggurr reaches out to rest his hand on the nearby window, but instead his hand collides with a vertical surface and he falls forward, glaive clattering to the floor. After a moment’s pause, he scrambles to his feet with a cut lip and coughs. “We, uh. We can go now, I think.”
Fydes sighs again. “An illusion, of course.” Wizard towers are the worst.
It’s barely twenty more steps before they reach the chamber at the top of the tower. Certainly a wizard’s workshop, complete with enchanting tables, vast tomes of arcane knowledge, various displays of magical trinkets. None of them in working order and none of them left unturned by previous looters.
“Jackpot,” Greggurr says as he starts shoveling as many accessories and magical doo-dads into his pockets as he can carry. “Anything in particular you’re looking for?”
“Keyrune,” Fydes says. “Looks like a key, has a rune etched in the handle. Pretty straightforward.”
“You mean like one of these?” Greggurr asks, pointing to a display case near the tower’s lone window.
Fydes approaches the glass case. Soft velvet displays a single keyrune made from silver with two outlines adjacent to it, appearing to indicate that there were at least two others in this case at some point. Fydes strokes his chin.
“I don’t get it. Why take the others but leave this one? There has to be a reason.”
Greggurr leans in, his whiskers tickling Fydes’ cheek. “Maybe it’s cursed.” He looks directly to the side at Fydes, unable to hide a giant grin.
Fydes sighs. “Whatever. Grab what you want, I’m taking this.” He lifts the glass from the display case, the ground starting to shudder as he sets it down on a nearby table.
“Hey, buddy…” Greggurr says. “Don’t feel too great about this plan of yours.”
Fydes lifts the keyrune from its velvet bed and everything starts to fall apart.
In fractions of a second, whatever structural integrity was holding the tower together seems to disappear. Dust falls from the ceiling. The cobblestone pavers shift under their feet. Gravity itself seems to lean slightly toward the window.
Fydes can barely realize what’s happening before Greggurr darts over and wraps one arm around him. Then, in a flash, he’s surrounded by a warm darkness with the sound of a loud rumbling in the distance.
Another few seconds of silence, save for the echoes of settling rubble.
“Okay, you can let go now.” Greggurr’s voice, but it’s like it’s right in front of him.
Fydes leans back and light pours in until he understands: Greggurr had him pressed tight against his hairy bugbear chest.
Fydes scrambles backwards, recovering his balance as he discovers that he’s on the slanted roof of the fortress, trinks spilling out of Greggurr’s pockets and clattering down to the ground below. Down to where the remains of the wizard’s tower have settled on what looks to be the fortress’s chapel.
At least, that’s what the gap in the walls and ceiling seem to indicate.
Where’s the keyrune? Fydes pats at his pockets, then looks around, turning to Greggurr.
“Where is it?” Fydes asks.
“Funny thing to say to a guy who just saved your life, buddy. Then again, you’ve got an interesting sense of danger.”
“I need to know where that keyrune went.”
“Really? You’re not even going to ask how we got here?”
“Yes, magic, I know. You saved my life with teleport magic,” Fydes grumbles. “You’ve made an excellent point, that’s nice, but I’ve got a job to do.”
“Boy, you’re a real wet blanket of a person, aren’t you?”
Fydes pauses. “Excuse me?”
“I’m just saying, most people say thanks after being rescued from mortal peril,” Greggurr says. “I’m not expecting a parade, but just something like ‘Thanks Greggur, I’d be a tiefling pancake if it weren’t for you’ would be fine!” He adopts a stoic frown when imitating Fydes, which only serves to irritate him further.
“I never asked for your help! For all I know, I would have been able to get the keyrune without destroying an entire fucking tower if it weren’t for you!” Fydes can hear his shouts echoing back to him, but he doesn’t care. He’s had enough of this asshole getting in his way.
Greggurr pulls himself to his feet, using his glaive for leverage. “All right. I get it. I mean, I was the one who warned you it might be cursed, but…” His voice is soft. “I’ll just go, I guess. Take care or whatever.” He turns around and trudges in the opposite direction of Fydes, looking for a way off the roof. Then, after a few moments of stillness, Fydes puts his hand over his mouth and bites his lip.
Don’t think about it. You’ve got enough to focus on.
Fydes starts gingerly climbing his way down to the ruined chapel. Might as well start sifting through the rubble to see if he can find that keyrune. It wasn’t terribly big or ornate for a chapel, but it did have a rather nicely-sculpted nondescript feminine holy figure at the back of the room. Her hands covered her heart and her hood obscured all but her cracked mouth.
You shouldn’t have blown him off so easily.
He had to, though. He was constantly getting in the way.
Was he, though? What could you have done if he weren’t there?
Greggurr was distracting him, keeping him from staying focused on the mission.
Or he was providing something more valuable than focus.
Really? Like what?
Company.
Fydes doesn’t need company. He needs discipline.
Funny thing to say when you’re talking to yourself.
Fydes straightens up, clutching a brick of cobblestone. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He doesn’t have time for this kind of doubt. This kind of regret. He needs to find the keyru—
Oh. Shining in the light from the breached wall, resting on top of some crumbling stone, is the very keyrune he’s searching for.
He squats down and picks it up.
Wait a minute. If it was resting on top of the stone, then it had to have fallen after the tower, right? Which means…
He had dropped the keyrune at some point after Greggurr had rescued him.
Clutching it in his hand, Fydes sighs as the regret pools higher and higher within him. He’s so preoccupied with his emotions that he doesn’t even hear the footsteps approaching from behind. He can’t even react when a blood-red shaft hits him in the back of the knee, forcing him to fall to the ground. Barely even understands when someone’s boot hooks on his hip and turns him over.
Greggurr Dwarvesbane stands astride Fydes’ hips, lifting one foot to step down on his stomach, just firm enough to keep his breathing nice and shallow.
“Listen, buddy, this isn’t personal, I swear.” He has the blade of his glaive trained on Fydes’ neck. This close, it’s easy to see the designs etched in the blade: A single, half-closed eye. “Maybe a little? It wasn’t personal until you yelled at me, I can say that much.”
“I’m…sorry.”
“C’monnnn, of course you’re sorry now.” Greggurr groans. “Now that you’re in mortal peril, sure you can apologize. But can you do it when nothing’s at stake but my feelings?”
“I could, but it doesn’t seem like I’ll get the chance.”
Greggurr winces. “Yeah, sorry pal. It’s just business. Lady Ria Trevalan wants the head of whoever goes looking for her sister’s trinkets in this here fortress.”
“Lady Rhea Trevalan?”
“No, no. Lady Ria. Rhea’s her sister.”
“Rhea has a sister?” Fydes asks.
“Two, actually. Well one, now. Rya’s now a Ryan.”
“Lady Ria is now a Ryan?”
Greggurr groans. “No, Ria’s still Ria, it’s Rya who’s become Ryan. Rhea was the one who hired you. Ria hired me. Ryan didn’t hire anyone because he’s probably the most well-adjusted of the three of them. He deals with his problems in a healthy way instead of hiring bounty hunters or treasure-obsessed adventurers.”
“I’m still a little lost,” Fydes says. “Did you say bounty hunter?”
“Oh! Yeah, I’m a bounty hunter actually, that other stuff was a lie. Sorry.”
“Not a wizard?”
Greggurr shakes his head. “Warlock, made up the stuff about killing one.”
“How did you sneak up on me?” Fydes asks.
“Uh,” Greggurr trails off, thinning and pursing his lips until: “Bugbear.”
“Bugbear?”
“Yeah, we’re real quiet. Nobody seems to remember that. Probably because of the killing that usually happens after the sneaking.” He tightens his grip on his glaive. “Speaking of which, uh. Gotta do that now. Sorry. You seemed like a real nice guy when you’re not having a panic attack.”
“W-wait—”
“FOOLISH CREATURES,” a loud voice bellowed from beside both of them.
The feminine stone figure had changed position when they weren’t looking. Now, it had its hands out and its head tilted upward, as if to address the sky.
Fydes and Greggurr exchanged looks.
“BE STILL AND BEHOLD,” the statue said, mouth open but not moving. It simply stood and the voice echoed forth from within. “A PROPHECY FOR THE CHOSEN.”
“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” Greggurr mumbles.
When warlocks three become united,
When a lone rector leaves a city blighted,
When a wanderer’s keyrunes are ignited,
And the vessel’s love acts unrequited
The devil himself shall ascend.
As the signs themselves portend
The only one who can suspend the end
Is himself the vessel’s—
The statue’s lower jaw drops to the ground, bouncing on the floor to rest near Greggurr’s foot.
“Wait!” Greggurr takes his glaive away from Fydes and dismisses it in a puff of red mist before picking up the stone jaw. He runs over to the statue, trying to put the jaw back on the statue, but gravity refuses to allow it. “Finish the stupid prophecy! The vessel’s what?”
But the statue crumbles into dust as soon as he asks the question.
“Well, shit.”
Fydes sits up, crossing his legs. Everything in his head is telling him not to ask this question, not to go down this road. He should just take the keyrune and run from this dangerous, lying, enormous idiot of a bugbear. But somehow…
Would that lead to peace?
He winces.
“Hey,” Fydes calls out. “She said three warlocks, right?”
Greggurr looks back to the pile of crumbled stone, then at Fydes again. “Yeah.”
“You know the Travalan sis—, er. The Travalans?”
“I’ve met a couple, yeah,” Greggurr says.
“Would you say they’re…warlock-like?”
Greggurr scratches under his ear. “I’d say they’re not un-warlock-like. There’s a definite possibility of warlockiness.”
“And you’d say that the three of them qualify for that possibility?”
Greggurr takes a step forward. “I…I might. Say that, I mean.”
“And one of them wants a keyrune that we happen to have right now. So, would it be very uh, warlock-y to ‘ignite’ this keyrune somehow?” Fydes asks.
Greggurr nods. “I’m not familiar with specific keyrune-related warlock practices. But. I wouldn’t put it past a fellow warlock to ignite a keyrune.”
“Ergo, if we, the only people here who heard the prophecy, decided to not return the keyrune to Lady Rhea Trevalan…”
“Or Lady Ria Trevalan…”
“Or even Lord Ryan Trevalan,” Fydes says. “Then would that not prevent whatever devil was just mentioned from, uh, ascending? So, to stop that, maybe we should just…walk away from the whole thing.”
Greggurr smiles. “Maybe we should.”
“So, uh,” Fydes says. “You heading in any particular direction after this?”
“Probably the opposite direction of Lady Trevalan’s estate.”
Fydes smiles. “What a coincidence. I’m heading that way too.”
“We could travel together,” Greggurr says, offering out a hand to help Fydes stand up. “For safety.”
Fydes accepts it, standing up to Greggurr’s chest. The bugbear must have a solid foot and a half on him. He glances up at Greggurr. “Yeah, for safety.”
They turn and make their way toward the chamber’s exit.
“You know, you never mentioned your name, paladin,” Greggurr says.
“Fydes.”
“Just Fydes?”
“Fydes of Westhaven, I suppose.”
Greggurr wraps an arm around the armored tiefling beside him. And for the first time, Fydes enjoys it. “Well, Fydes of Westhaven, I think you’ve got a fine name and a better ass.”
“You weren’t lying about that?” Fydes says, allowing himself a smirk.
“I never lie about the quality of a man’s ass.”
Fydes lets his smirk spread wider. Greggurr was right, too. You absolutely could bounce a silver off it.
Orcanist 